


Geranium Jane and the Alchemist's Stone

by raspberriesandrum



Series: The Marvelous Misadventures of Geranium Jane [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Audience Participation Fic, Book 1: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, F/F, F/M, Female Draco Malfoy, Female Friendship, Female Harry Potter, Female Ron Weasley, Gen, M/M, Male Hermione Granger, Male-Female Friendship, Multi, Rule 63, Series Rewrite, tagging as we go, the entire book cast
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 13:00:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16765663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raspberriesandrum/pseuds/raspberriesandrum
Summary: [Full-Cast Rule 63 AU]. Geranium Jane Evans had no idea just how special she was, until, on her eleventh birthday, she received a letter inviting her to attend a school for magic! Thrust unexpectedly into a world where she's a living legend Janie must come to terms with her family's legacy and uncover the mystery of the forbidden third floor corridor.





	1. Showers of Owls

It was a blandly cloudy, grey Tuesday morning and when Mrs. Verona Evans peered out the window of number four, Privet Drive and there was nothing about the sky to suggest that very soon strange and mysterious things would be happening all over the country. 

There was a light breeze and the occasional sprinkle of chilly misting rain and as such Mrs. Evans selected a very proper grey pantsuit with a pressed white shirt for her office attire. Feeling that if it was too hot in the office she could doff the jacket easily enough. 

She selected from her sparse jewellery box the string of pearls that her husband, Mr. Peter Evans, had given her for her anniversary.

She was a short, round-faced woman with hardly any neck, whose more-than-generous bosom preceded her like the prow of a ship. In contrast, Mr. Evans was thin and blond and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in handy as he spent a great deal of his time craning it over fences and around buildings to take pictures of celebrities in order to sell them to the papers and on the internet.

The Evans' had a small daughter called Daisy and in their opinion there was no finer girl anywhere.   
  
The Evans' had everything they’d ever wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. And if that were to happen, well, they didn't think they could bear it.   
  
Their secret had to do with Linden Evans, Mr. Evans' brother. Although the brothers had been close when they were children they hadn't met in several years. In fact Mr. Evans often pretended he didn't have a brother, because his brother, and his insouciant jezebel of a wife, were as irregular as Mr. and Mrs. Evans were normal. That was, they were highly irregular indeed.   
  
The Evans' shuddered to think what the neighbours would say if Linden Evans and his wife arrived in the street. 

The Evans' knew that Linden and Jane had a small daughter too, but they had never seen her. This girl was another perfectly good reason for keeping away; they certainly didn't want their precious Daisy mixing with a child like  _ that _ .

Frowning at her reflection critically in the mirror Mrs. Evans smoothed a hand over the front of her pants where the button was straining and sucked in her gut a little. It didn’t do much good. Sighing she fluffed her hair a bit and smudged her lips with a modest amount of colour before heading downstairs with her jacket folded over her arm. 

She hung the jacket on the peg by the door and scooped a whining Daisy up out of her playpen. 

“Are you hungry, precious?” she cooed at her daughter.

Daisy squirmed and tugged on her mother’s hair and then she spat her binkie out and began to wail. 

Mr. Evans was in the kitchen, unbothered by the noise, humming as he reviewed a thumb drive filled with photos of the latest young starlet in flagrante delicto with a member of parliament at least thirty years her senior on his computer, and Mrs. Evans barked out a sharp scold to: "Put that bloody machine away and feed your child!" as she wrestled a screaming Daisy into her high-chair.   
  
None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.   
  
At half-past eight Mrs. Evans picked up her briefcase, pecked Mr. Evans on the cheek, and tried to kiss Daisy goodbye but missed, because Daisy was now having a full-blown tantrum and throwing her cereal at the walls.   
  
"Peter, darling, your daughter is screaming, put that away, I mean it! I have to get to work!" Mrs. Evans repeated.

It earned her a grunt of acknowledgement but Mr. Evans didn’t look up from his computer.    
  
Mrs. Evans shrugged into her smart, grey blazer and slipped her pudgy feet into her sensible heels and rushed out the door.   
  
She got into her car, it was new, a shiny silver station wagon, and backed out of number four's drive.

Mrs. Evans was the personal assistant for the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills and she dearly loved her job. She was the second most important person in the London office without all the fuss and bother of actually bothering with drill manufacturing, which suited her just fine. 

As she rolled up to the corner of the street she noticed the first sign of something peculiar—a cat reading a map. 

For a second Mrs. Evans didn't realize what she'd seen—then she jerked her head around to look again. There, standing on the corner of Privet Drive, was a tabby cat. But there, of course, wasn't a map in sight.   
  
Mrs. Evans blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. Behind them Mr. Number Six honked the horn of his moss green sedan and she was obliged to move forward. 

As Mrs. Evans drove around the corner and up the road, she watched the cat in her rearview mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive—no, looking at the sign; cats, after all, didn't read maps  _ or _ signs.   
  
Mrs. Evans gave herself a little shake. 

“Too much coffee, old girl,” she told herself firmly and put the cat out of her mind.   
  
As she drove towards town she received a call from the vice-president's assistant, and, popping her Bluetooth into her ear so that she could talk freely, she allowed herself to be distracted by the latest company scandal.   
  
But, on the edge of town, the factory manager, Mr. Winslow’s, latest faux-pas was driven out of her mind by something else.   
  
As she sat in the usual early morning snarl of commuter traffic, chatting with Wendy, the vice-president's assistant, she couldn't help but notice that their seemed to be a great deal of strangely dressed people about.   
  
"Wendy are you seeing all this?" she asked her friend, her voice taking on a clear note of disapproval as she took in all of hideous outfits adorning the passersby.   
  
"If you're talking about the ridiculous profusion of cloaks about this morning then yes, I've seen them."   
  
"I can't abide people who dress in funny clothing!" Mrs. Evans' exclaimed, "The getups you see on young people nowadays!"   
  
"It's just a stupid stunt, Verona, someone will remind them that Halloween was yesterday right quick, no need to get your knickers in a twist," said Wendy, the vice-president's assistant, a hint of laughter in her voice.   
  
Mrs. Evans frowned out her front windshield. Although she did consider Wendy a friend, the woman could be shockingly liberal for someone who was meant to be the vice-president's own personal assistant. Some days she had no clear notion of how Wendy had managed to make it as far as she had with her attitude.   
  
"I suppose," she agreed reluctantly, all the same, since she didn't want to start a row in the middle of traffic, before the day had even properly begun.   
  
"Look Verona I have to go, Mr. Sanders is in. I'll talk to you later. Try not to let them bother you too much."   
  
And with a soft boop the line disconnected.   
  
Still obliged to wait to move forward, Mrs. Evans tried to occupy herself by drumming her fingers on the steering wheel and her eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by. They were all whispering excitedly together.   
  
Mrs. Evans was quite incensed to see that a couple of them weren't young at all; why that woman had to be older than she was, and yet there she stood wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of her!

But then it struck Mrs. Evans that this was probably some silly stunt like that nonsense with the tape for those homosexuals and the little pink ribbons everyone went around wearing last month to raise money for cancer or somesuch—yes, these people were obviously protesting or collecting for something.   
  
The traffic moved on and, pleased with her deductions, Mrs. Evans arrived in the Grunnings car park a few minutes later, her mind already upstairs at her desk.   
  
Mrs. Evans always sat facing into the hall at the sweeping reception desk just outside the director's office on the ninth floor. If this wasn’t the case she might have found it harder to concentrate on sorting her emails and appointments for the day.   
  
As it was, she didn't see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gawped open-mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl before in their lives, not even during the nighttime.   
  
Mrs. Evans, however, had a perfectly typical, owl-free morning. 

She made several trips to the staff-room on the twelfth floor for coffee, yelled at five different lollygaggers from accounting, made several important telephone calls, and shouted a bit more. She was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when she had the thought to stretch her legs and bit and walk across the road to buy herself a bun from the bakery.   
  
She'd managed to forget entirely her annoyance with the people in cloaks until she passed a group of them next to the baker's. She eyed them angrily as she passed. She didn't know why, exactly, but they made her uneasy. She drew her purse closer to her side although it offered nothing in the way of protection and she doubted anyone would be so bold as to try and take it from her in the middle of the crowded street, no matter how oddly dressed.   
  
This bunch were whispering excitedly too, and she couldn't spot a single flyer, form or collecting tin. The slackers. 

It was on her way back past them, clutching an extra-large jelly-filled doughnut in a bag, that she caught a few words of what they were saying.   
  
"The Evans'--”

She stopped in her tracks. 

“That's right, that's what I heard, yes, it was their baby daughter, Geranium—"

Mrs. Evans felt herself go very pale, all the blood freezing in her veins. 

She glanced back at the whisperers and thought of saying something to them, but thought better of it.   
  
She all but dashed back across the road, hurried up to her floor, snapped at the intern who was hovering around her desk, no doubt hoping to ply her with coffee, and barricaded herself in the staff washroom.   
  
She had her mobile phone out and it was vibrating in her palm letting her know that she was in the process of calling Mr. Evans before she had a chance to really think about what she was doing. 

Abruptly she hit cancel, changing her mind. She tucked the phone back into the inner pocket of her blazer and smoothed her trembling hands over the front of her trousers, brushing away invisible flecks of dust, thinking.

She was being stupid, she decided. There was no doubt that the funny people in cloaks were the sort of unnatural folk that her brother-in-law surrounded himself with, there were few enough people in the world with the name Geranium that coupled with the surname, Evans, they couldn’t be talking about anyone except her young niece.    
  
However, there was no point in worrying Mr. Evans. It wasn’t any of their business what that sort got up to. They’d never even met their niece for all that Linden had sent a photo and a letter when she was born. 

No, there was no sense telling him. Mr. Evans always got terribly upset at any mention of his brother. She didn't blame him either, if she'd had a brother like that she wouldn’t have been half as forgiving. 

  
Still, she found it considerably more difficult to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when she left the building at five o'clock sharp she was still so worried about the whole mess that she walked straight into someone just outside the door.   
  
"Oh, I beg your pardon," she said stiffly, as the tiny old woman stumbled and nearly fell.   
  
It was a few seconds before Mrs. Evans realized that the woman was wearing a violet cloak embroidered with pink posies. She didn't seem at all put out about being nearly knocked to the ground. On the contrary, her face split into a wide grin and she said, at a volume that suggested at least partial deafness and made passersby stare, "Don't be sorry, my dear girl! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has been defeated at last! Even muggles like yourself should be celebrating on this most joyous of days!"   
  
And then the old woman tossed her wizened arms around Mrs. Evans and squeezed her around the middle with a sudden fierceness and tottered off.   
  
Mrs. Evans stood rooted to the spot. She had been hugged by a complete stranger and she was also quite certain she'd been called a muggle, whatever that was meant to imply, and people were  _ staring _ .   
  
Hurrying to her car she set off for home as quickly as possible, hoping against hope that she was simply imagining things, which was something she'd never hoped before in her life because she didn’t approve of imagination.

She drove carefully and kept her eyes fixed forward.    
  
As she pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing she saw—and it did nothing at all to improve her mood—was the tabby cat she'd spotted that morning. It was now sitting on her garden wall. She was positive it was the same cat, it had precisely the same funny markings about its eyes that made it look as though it was wearing specs.

"Shoo!" said Mrs. Evans at top volume. 

She considered picking up a stone and tossing it at the wayward feline but since Mrs. Number Six disapproved of violence against animals she refrained. The cat, for its part, fixed her with a stern look and didn't move so much as an inch. Was that normal cat behaviour? Mrs. Evans wondered, tucking her hair behind her ears and trying to pull herself together.   
  
Fumbling for her keys she let herself into her house. She was still determined not to mention anything to her husband.   
  
Mr. Evans had had a nice normal day. He arrived home at half-six with take away and told her over dinner all about the scandal that was about to erupt on the news because it had been discovered that some foreign actor had been engaging in relations of a carnal nature out in broad daylight, and how Daisy had learned a new word ("Shan't") and had been using it all day at the daycare according to Mrs. Polkiss.   
  
Mrs. Evans tried her best to behave as though there weren't anything amiss and when Daisy had been given her bath and put to bed she had almost regained her equilibrium and went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:

  
"And finally, bird-watchers across the country have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving most unusually today. Although owls typically only come out to hunt at night and are almost never seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sighting of these birds, flying in every direction, since sunrise this morning. Experts are unable to explain this sudden radical change in behaviour, but, as usual, they are cautioning that it might be a side-effect of global climate change." The newscaster allowed herself a grin. "Most mysterious. And now, over to Jen McGuffin with the weather. Are there going to be anymore showers of owls tonight, Jen?"   
  
"Well, Tess," said the pretty weathergirl, "I don't know anything about that but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today, I can tell you that much. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Well, we certainly can't chalk that up to global climate change now, can we? Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early—it's not until next week folks! But I can definitely promise you a wet night tonight as we get a cold front rolling in from the northeast—"   
  
Mrs. Evans was glued to the settee. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying in broad daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks wandering about town? Combining all those different things with a whisper about her niece and it didn’t bode well. 

  
Mr. Evans came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He'd have to say something. A bit nervously she took a sip of her tea and cleared her throat.   
  
"Er—Peter, dear—you haven't perchance heard from your brother lately, have you?"   
  
As she'd expected, Mr. Evans was both shocked and angry. After all, they had entered into an unspoken agreement in the early years of their marriage to pretend as though he didn't have a brother.   
  
"No," he said sharply, setting his teacup down with a definitive clink, "Why?"   
  
"Nothing to concern yourself with, darling," Mrs. Evans hastened to reassure him, "It was just some funny reports on the news, and there were some people in town today—"   
  
"So?" snapped Mr. Evans.   
  
"Well, I just had the thought that it might—potentially—have something to do with…well, you know.  _ His lot _ ."

That was as indiscrete as Mrs. Evans was prepared to be even in the privacy of her own living room.    
  
Mr. Evans' brows drew together most forebodingly and he didn't even look at Mrs. Evans for a long while. Mrs. Evans wondered if she dared tell him she'd heard the name Evans being bandied about by the people in cloaks? Another darting glance at his face told her that she didn't dare. Instead, she took another fortifying sip of her tea and asked, as casually as she could manage, "Their girl—she'd be about Daisy's age now, wouldn't she?"   
  
"I suppose," said Mr. Evans stiffly.   
  
"What was her name again?"   
  
"Geranium, our mother picked it,” sneered Peter, “A terrible name for a child, if you ask me."   
  
"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Evans, hear heart sinking horribly, "Yes, you're quite correct, dear."   
  
She didn't say another word on the subject but the atmosphere in the living room remained tense. Mrs. Evans just counted herself lucky that he hadn't gone straight for the gin after she'd been bold enough to make a mention like that.   
  
When they went upstairs to bed, though, Mr. Evans locked himself in the bathroom for a good long while.

Mrs. Evans slipped into her nightgown, the flannel one with the ruffles that Mr. Evans liked because in was soft and flattering, and crept over to the window, peering down into the front garden for the second time that day.   
  
The cat was still there, haloed in the orange light from the streetlamp, standing stock still and staring fixedly down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something.   
  
Was she really sure she wasn't making more of this than it was? She didn’t think so but maybe she was a little too close to the matter, after all, if it got out that they were related to a pair of—well, she didn't think she could stand it.   
  
The bathroom door swung open and Mr. Evans emerged. 

“Alright, darling?” Mrs. Evans asked. 

“Just fine, Verona,” he snapped, lips pursed into a thin, unforgiving line, “Let’s just go to sleep.”

  
They got into bed.   
  
Mr. Evans fell asleep quickly, his hands fisted in the excess material of Mrs. Evans' nightdress, snoring quietly against the back of her neck. But Mrs. Evans lay awake, her mind conjuring all kinds of horrific scenarios with nothing to distract her. Her last, and only comforting thought of the day before she fell asleep, was that even if her in-laws just happened to be involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mr. Evans.   
  
Those two knew very well what she and Peter thought about them and their kind. She could not see how she and Peter could get mixed up in anything that may or may not be going on—she yawned and turned over—it couldn't affect them…   
  
How very wrong she was.


	2. The Girl Who Lived

Mr. and Mrs. Evans might have been soundly asleep but the cat on the wall was unwavering in its alertness. It was still perched on the garden wall, still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive as it had been for most of the day.   
  
It didn't so much as twitch the tip of its tail when a car door slammed on the next street over, nor when two owls swooped overhead, hooting softly. In fact it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all and even that was only to prick its ears and perk up even straighter.    
  
A woman appeared on the corner the cat had been watching. 

She appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought she'd been there all along. The cat's tail twitched minutely, and its eyes narrowed.   
  
Nothing like this woman had ever before been seen on Privet Drive. 

She was tall, indecently tall for a woman, thin, and very old. Laughter and worry together had carved deep crags into her face and her hair was pure silver. It hung in a long plaited rope past her waist with two silver bells tethered to the end of it, chiming softly as it swayed with her gait.   
  
She was wearing long robes and a purple cloak that swept the ground and high-heeled boots with big silvery buckles. Her eyes were light; bright and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and her nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. Very unbecoming. This woman's name was Alba Dumbledore.   
  
Alba Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that she'd arrived on a street where everything from her name to her boots was unwelcome. She was too busy rummaging in the sleeve of her robes, looking for something. But she did seem to realize she was being watched, because she looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at her from the other end of the street. For some unknown reason, the sight of it seemed to amuse her.   
  
She chuckled and muttered, "I might have known."   
  
She found what it was she was looking for reaching deep into the folds of her sleeve with a triumphant expression. It seemed to be a fanciful, silver cigarette lighter. She flicked it open, held it up in the air and clicked it.   
  
The nearest street lamp went out with a soft whoosh. She clicked it again—the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times total did she click the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the reflective eyes of the cat, still watching her intently.   
  
If anyone were to look out their window now, even the beady-eyed Mr. Evans with his telephoto lenses, they wouldn't have been able to see anything that was happening down at street level.   
  
Dumbledore slipped her curious little device back into her sleeve and set off down the street towards number four, her bells chiming and her boots clicking. She settled down on the wall next to the cat. She didn't look at it right away but after a moment she spoke to it.   
  
"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."   
  
She turned to smile at the tabby, but it had vanished. Instead she was smiling at a rather severe-looking gentleman who was wearing rectangular glasses, exactly the shape of the markings the cat had sported around its eyes. His long black hair was drawn into a tight queue. Despite all of his outward neatness his expression was distinctly ruffled.   
  
"How did you know it was me?" he asked.   
  
"My dear Professor, I have never once seen a cat sit so stiffly."   
  
"You'd be stiff too if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," said Professor McGonagall with a huff, rolling his shoulders to illustrate.    
  
"All day? When you could have been celebrating?" chided Dumbledore, "I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."   
  
Professor McGonagall glowered out into the night, "Oh, yes, everyone is celebrating, all right," he said impatiently, "You'd think after everything that they'd be a bit more careful, but no—even the muggles have noticed something's not right. It was on their news tonight." He jerked his head back at the Evans' dark living room window. "I heard the whole thing. Flocks of owls. Shooting stars. Well, there are limits to even a muggle's ability to deny what's right in front of their nose. They were bound to notice something when erumpent-brained fools started conjuring shooting stars of all things! The ones they set off down in Kent will be Deidre Diggle's doing mark my words. She never did have much sense."   
  
"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently, "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."   
  
"I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably, "I was there too, in case you forget. But that's no excuse to lose our heads now. And I do blame them, Alba. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even attempting to blend in with the muggles, swapping rumors like twittering third years."   
  
He threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping that she would interrupt him, but she didn't so he soldiered on.   
  
"A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the muggles found out about our world. I suppose she really has gone, Alba? You'd be the first to correct the reports if she wasn't."   
  
"I would," she agreed, dipping her head, "And it certainly seems that the reports are at least marginally accurate in this case. We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"   
  
"A what?"   
  
"A lemon drop. They're a kind of muggle sweet I'm rather fond of."   
  
"No, thank you," said McGonagall with frosty politeness, as though he didn't think that this was the proper time from lemon drops, "As I was saying, even if You-Know-Who really is gone this time—"   
  
"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call her by her name? All this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense has gone on quite long enough—for years now I have been trying to persuade people to call her by her proper name: Lady Gaunt."   
  
Professor McGonagall flinched and fingered his wand. Dumbledore, engrossed in the task of unsticking two lemon drops, pretended not to notice his discomfort.   
  
"It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who'. What if we do not, in fact, know who? No, I have never seen any reason to be continually frightened of using Tamsin Gaunt’s name.”   
  
"I know you haven't," said McGonagall with a snort that was half exasperated, half admiring, "But you're different. Everyone knows that you are the only one You-know—oh, very well, Lady Gaunt, was ever wary of."   
  
"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly, "Lady Gaunt had powers that I will never possess."   
  
"Only because you're too noble-minded to seek them out."   
  
"It's lucky it’s quite dark, I don't believe I have blushed so much since Powell Pomfrey told me he liked my new earmuffs."   
  
Professor McGonagall turned his eyes skyward briefly before favoring Dumbledore with another sharp look.

"Do please stop, Alba. You know what everyone is saying don't you? About why she's disappeared. About what finally stopped her?"   
  
Professor McGonagall had reached the limit of his formidable patience and was intent on covering the topic that he was most anxious to discuss immediately. The real reason he had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a man had he fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as he did just then.   
  
It was clear that whatever 'everyone' was saying, he was not about to believe it until Dumbledore was the one who told him it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.   
  
Professor McGonagall was generous, he waited a full thirty seconds for Dumbledore to answer him before pressing on.

“What they're saying is that last night the Dark Lady turned up in Greta's Hollow. She went to find the Evans'. The rumor is that Linden and Jane Evans are—are—that they're—dead."   
  
Dumbledore bowed her head for moment and then gave a short nod.    
  
Professor McGonagall choked on his next words, shaking his head.   
  
"Linden and Jane—I can't—I didn't want to believe it."   
  
"I know," said Dumbledore, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. "I know, Miles. I hadn't wanted to believe it either but…"   
  
Professor McGonagall cleared his throat, blinking the moisture out of his eyes stubbornly.

"That isn't the end of it though. There's more. They're saying that Gaunt tried to kill their child. Geranium. But—she couldn't. She couldn't kill that little girl. No one is saying why, or how, but they are saying that when she couldn't kill Geranium Evans, Gaunt's power somehow broke—and that that's why she's gone."   
  
Dumbledore hesitated over her words before finally electing just to nod glumly.   
  
"It's—that bit is true as well?" asked Professor McGonagall, his voice faltering. "After all she's done, all the people she's killed, she couldn't manage a little girl not yet out of nappies? It's just—it's astounding, of all the things, of all the people to stop him, but how in Merlin's name did she survive?"   
  
"We can only speculate," said Dumbledore, "We may never know for certain."   
  
Dumbledore gave a great sigh, rubbing at her eyes tiredly, and then she took a golden watch on a slender chain out from under her robes and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. Still, Dumbledore must have been able to make sense of it, because she tucked it away and said: "Ruby is late. I suppose it was she who told you I would be here?"   
  
"Yes," agreed Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you've come here, of all places?"   
  
"I have come to bring young Geranium to her uncle and aunt. They're the only family she has left now."   
  
"You don't mean—you cannot possibly mean the people who live in this house?" demanded Professor McGonagall, leaping to his feet and pointing an accusing finger at number four. "Alba, you can't! I've been watching them all day. You could not find two people less open-minded if you scoured the globe for years. And their child—I saw her kicking her father all the way up the street, screaming for sweets at the top of her voice. Geranium Evans come and live here! You must be off your head!"   
  
"It is the best place for her," said Dumbledore firmly. "Her aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to her when she's ready. I've written them a letter."   
  
"A letter?" repeated McGonagall, arching a dubious brow and folding his arms across his chest. "Alba, really, you can't expect to explain all of this sufficiently in a letter! These people will never truly understand her! She'll be famous—a legend—there will be books written about her, maybe even a national holiday, every child in our world will know her name!"   
  
"Exactly," said Dumbledore, looking very serious over the top of her half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any child's head. Famous before she can walk or talk. Famous for an act that she will not even remember. Can't you see how much better of she'll be, growing up away from all of that pressure until she is ready?"

“Alba you and I of all people know what can happen when powerful young magical children are left to grow up with intolerant muggles. What about Addie Black? She was named godmother and she’s technically a distant cousin of Jane’s. Even the ministry wouldn’t argue her suitability.”

“Addie hasn’t been seen for months, Miles. I haven’t been able to contact her and neither has Petra. Jane had indicated that she was still in contact but she was the Evans’ secret keeper and with their death...”

McGonagall’s jaw clenched up again. First Jane and Linden, now Addie Black. 

“And I expect given the way this evening is going you’re about to tell me that Remy Lupin hasn’t met her check in either.”

Dumbledore didn’t say anything but then again she didn’t have to. 

McGonagall fought the urge to set fire to the neatly trimmed hedges. He didn’t approve of favouritism but that didn’t change the fact that Jane Potter and Addie Black’s little group were some of her favourite students. They had each of them been good-hearted and brave and frighteningly brilliant with magic. 

He cleared his throat.

“Alix Havers then. He was the godfather if I’m not mistaken, his girl Nellie is about Geranium’s age. Antares Black would also be suitable, he’s a more distant cousin but the ministry wouldn’t challenge the Black name.”

“Miles,” Dumbledore said, laying a hand on his knee, “It isn’t that simple.”

“She’s a child, Alba. Barely more than an infant, she deserves to grow up with people who will love her.”

“She deserves to live to grow up,” Dumbledore said. “Tamsin Gaunt may have been stripped of her magic, but I assure you she is yet among the living. This is only the beginning of the long end. If I had had more time I would have concealed the true nature of Lady Gaunt’s defeat. Of the child’s role in it. The people of Greta’s Hollow acted too hastily I fear and now Geranium Evans will always be a target for Death Eaters and dark sympathizers. You will remember the fallout from my duel with Geillis.”

McGonagall couldn’t disagree with that. He was still occasionally part and party to repelling attacks against Alba’s person, orchestrated by fanatics from the continent that still lived in Geillis Grindelwald’s sway, and that Dark witch had been defeated long decades ago. Still.

“Alix and Francesca are trained aurors, and Augustus Longbottom is not to be trifled with for all that he is getting on in years.”

Dumbledore shook her head and her little bells chimed softly, “Alix and Francesca have their own troubles to guard against, and here I have the ability to set up a geas of sorts.”

“Ritual magic?”

“Yes, Linden Evans was a singular wizard. His work with the Department of Mysteries served him well.”

“How so?” asked McGonagall, though he didn’t disagree.

“Linden had the foresight to set a magical trap and tie it to the house in Greta’s Hollow. A sort of protection geas. His death, his sacrifice, triggered the spell and it is keyed to his blood. Thusly, if a member of Linden’s blood family were to take his daughter into their home and agree to protect her…”

Dumbledore trailed off meaningfully and although McGonagall wasn’t the type of wizard to muck about with ancient styles of magic she could follow the logic easily enough. 

“A blood warding powered by a willing sacrifice would be long-lasting and powerful protection indeed,” he admitted still frowning. “What about the muggle grandparents, Sunflower Evans is a bit of an odd duck, she’s one of those tree loving muggles. What are they called? Hippers? She owns a mundane herb emporium in Cokeworth, Hortense Slughorn sometimes buys her potions ingredients from her.”

“Miles, please,” sighed Dumbledore, before continuing, “Sunflower and Harold Evans were found dead in their home this evening with the Dark Mark hanging overhead. The wards Linden and Jane set were taken down quietly and they were struck by the Killing Curse. The aurors just have to modify the memories for the muggle authorities before it is official. Peter Evans and her daughter are Linden Evans’ only blood relations yet living and Geranium Evans must be protected at any cost.”

“And when Magical Britain produces the seventh known obscurial in one-hundred years, what then?” snapped McGonagall. 

“I have taken precautions, Miles. If it does, Merlin forbid, come to that then, yes, I will relocate the child.”   
  
Professor McGonagall opened his mouth to protest. If Dumbledore acknowledged that Geranium Jane was in danger of developing an obscurus from living with Peter Evans then it was certainly not in the child’s best interest to stay in such a household. Blood protection be damned.

A look at her face, though, changed his mind and he pressed his lips into a thin line. If Alba Dumbledore of all witches thought that risking a child becoming an obscurial was a necessary evil then there was something else in play that McGonagall simply wasn’t privy to. Not many people were aware but Dumbledore’s own brother had been an obscurial, and Geillis Grindelwald had seduced another into attempting to assassinate her during the height of her power. If there was a witch who knew how serious an obscurus could be it was Dumbledore. If she thought this placement was still necessary--well, McGonagall shuddered to think about it. 

"I will defer to your judgement, Alba, but I do not agree that this is the best choice."   
  
"You worry too much, Miles. It was a very extensive, thorough and carefully-worded letter," said Dumbledore with a wan smile.   
  
Professor McGonagall was less than amused.   
  
"Very well. How is the child getting here, Alba?"   
  
"Ruby is bringing her."   
  
"Do you think it wise? To trust Ruby with something as important as this?"   
  
"I would trust Ruby with my life," asserted Dumbledore.   
  
"I am not saying her heart's not in the right place, Ruby is as much my friend as she is yours," said McGonagall, hands raised in the universal gesture of surrender, "But you cannot pretend she's not careless. She tends to—what was that?"   
  
A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around the. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; when it swelled to a dull roar they finally both looked up at the sky—and a frankly enormous motorcycle fell out of the air to land right in front of them, bouncing slightly as its tires hit the pavement.   
  
And if the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing compared to the woman sitting astride it. She was at almost twice as tall as the average man and at least two times as wide. She looked simply too big to be real, and so very wild—long tangles of bushy black curls framed her wide expressive face, and she grinned as she swung one long, long leg over the side of the motorcycle, a bundle of blankets held fast in the crook of one arm.   
  
"Ruby," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved, "At last. Where is the name of Merlin did you acquire that motorcycle?"   
  
"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, ma'am," said the giantess, tossing her unruly hair out of her eyes, "Young Addie Black lent it to me."   
  
"You’ve seen her?"

“Yes’m, she were in Greta’s Hollow lookin’ like death, poor thing--”

McGonagall looked sharply at Dumbledore but if the older witch thought that suspicious timing she didn’t say one way or the other. She merely nodded. 

“No problems though, I trust?”   
  
"No ma'am—house was almost destroyed, but I got her out all right before the muggles started swarmin' around. She fell right asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol."   
  
Dumbledore and McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just barely visible, was a baby girl fast asleep. Under a tuft of wild auburn hair over her forehead they could see that one side of her face was streaked with thin zig-zagging scars that skittered across her baby-features like lightning in a dark cloud, all still angry and red and radiating out from a single point.   
  
"Is that where—"   
  
"Yes, it would seem so. If I were to venture a guess I would say she'd have that scar forever. Dark magic does not lend itself to easy healing."   
  
"Couldn't you do something about it Alba? The poor girl will have a tough enough time fitting in with muggles."   
  
"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Beauty is fleeting but scars can come in handy. I myself have one above my left knee which is a perfect map of the London Underground.”

And it wasn’t that McGonagall disagreed with that exactly but he had the thought that it had been a very, very long time since Alba had to worry about what other people thought of her. 

“Well—give her here, Ruby—we'd best get this over with before it grows much later."   
  
Dumbledore took Geranium into her arms carefully, and turned towards number four.   
  
"Could I—could I say goodbye to her, Professor?" asked Ruby, her big brown eyes already watering.   
  
Dumbledore paused obligingly at the edge of the walk. Ruby bent her great shaggy head over the tiny bundle and gave her a delicate kiss on her cap of downy reddish hair.   
  
She pulled away with obvious reluctance and then, quite suddenly, let out a howl like a wounded dog.   
  
"Shhh!" hissed McGonagall, "You'll wake the muggles!"   
  
"S-sorry," blubbered Ruby, pulling a large spotted handkerchief out of her coat pocket and burying her face in it, "But I just can't stand it—Linden and Jane dead—an' poor little Geri of ter live with muggles—"   
  
She broke off with another gasping sob and McGonagall did his best to pull her into an embrace, patting her somewhat stiffly on the back while she cried into the joint between his neck and shoulder, nearly squeezing the breath out of him as she hugged back.   
  
"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Ruby, or we'll be found," McGonagall wheezed.   
  
Dumbledore left them standing there on the edge of the walk and continued up to the front door. She laid the child gently on the doorstep, waving her hand and muttering a long, involved chant over her bundle of blankets. She drew a letter out of her sleeve. It was tucked into a thick creamy envelope and addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Evans of number four Privet Drive in looping emerald green cursive. Dumbledore settled it among the blankets, and then made her way back to the other two.   
  
For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle. Ruby's shoulders shook, McGonagall blinked furiously every few seconds, and the twinkling inner light that usually shined from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.   
  
"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "That, as they say, is that. We've no business lingering here. We may as well go and join the celebrations before our absence is noted."   
  
"Yeah," agreed Ruby in a very muffled voice, pulling away from McGonagall reluctantly, "I'll be taking Addie back her bike. She’ll be reportin’ in at headquarters before too long and after this day I’ve a mind to get stinkin’ drunk without an audience. G'night, Miles—Professor Dumbledore."   
  
Tucking her handkerchief back into her pocket Ruby dried her eyes with a few rough swipes with the back of her coat sleeve, and swung herself back up onto the motorcycle. She kicked the engine back to life and with a deafening roar it rose up into the air and set off into the night.   
  
"I shall see you quite shortly I expect Miles," said Dumbledore, nodding to him, "I have a meeting with the Ministry representatives and the Board of Governors tomorrow. It is high time that Hogwarts re-opened."   
  
McGonagall gave no reply for a long, his throat still choked with unshed tears. 

“Tomorrow then, Alba,” he said shortly, turning on his heel. 

  
He thought he rather might like to join Ruby and let her drink him under the table and into insensibility.    
  
Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner she stopped and took out her fanciful silver Put-Outer. She clicked it once, and twelves balls of light zipped back along the street into their proper lamps. Privet Drive suddenly glowed warmly and she could make out the sinuous arch of a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. If she strained herself she could just see the edge of the bundle of blankets, swathed in shadow on the stoop of number four.   
  
"Good luck, little one," she murmured.   
  
She turned sharply on her heel and with a swish of her cloak, she was gone. As though she'd never been at all, with not even a breath of air to announce her departure.   
  
A cool November breeze ruffled the neat lawns and hedges of Privet Drive, which lay, silent and tidy as ever under the star-spotted sky. It really was the very last place you would expect astonishing and impossible things to happen.   
  
Geranium Jane Evans rolled over inside her blankets, still fast asleep. One small hand closed over the letter beside her and she slept on, not knowing that she was special, not knowing that she was famous, not knowing that she would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Evans' scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that she would spend the next few weeks being scratched and pinched by her cousin Daisy.   
  
She couldn't know that at that very same moment, people were meeting, in secret and in public, all over the country. That they were holding up their glasses and cheering in hushed or bellowing voices: "To Geranium Jane—the girl who lived!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well there we have it, I'm trying to add a little more detail and a little more background, filling things in with my own headcanons here and there as we go along. 
> 
> Now gentle readers do we think that Daisy Evans is as spoiled a bully as Dudley? Is she a muggle or a witch? And what about Janie, does being a girl make things easier or more difficult? Are Verona and Peter cruel to her or are they too focused on their careers to pay her and Daisy any mind?
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts in the comments down below! Else I will just have to close my eyes and point!

**Author's Note:**

> A re-write/re-post (if you can call making minor modifications to a single chapter a rewrite) of my previous attempt at this idea - Holly Evans and the Alchemist's Stone - which you can still find under this username on fanfiction.net
> 
> Four years ago I had the notion of purging myself of my deep dislike of cisflip fics and encouraging more people to review by writing a series rewrite with the cast flipped in its entirety and asking for audience participation to help generate twists and turns that would appeal to my readership and perhaps force me to write outside the box. 
> 
> Now that I've finally grown to love well thought-out cisflip fics I thought it might be time to take another crack at it!
> 
> Please leave a comment down below and let me know what you think so far! I will start asking specific audience participation questions in a few chapters but feel free to throw out unsolicited ideas if you have them!


End file.
